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1460 Words
The moment I stepped into my room, the fury swallowed me whole.
I ripped off my blazer, my breath ragged, uneven. My fingers curled around the nearest thing—a heavy glass vase—and before I could stop myself, I hurled it against the wall.
The crash was deafening. Shards of crystal exploded across the floor, reflecting the dim light like shattered stars.
My chest heaved.
How dare he.
How dare my father erase my existence with a single deal. How dare he take everything I built, everything I bled for, and throw it away like it meant nothing.
A knock at the door.
Then it opened, because of course it did.
My mother stepped in, her face calm. Too calm.
"That was unnecessary," she said smoothly, her eyes flicking to the broken vase.
"You don’t get to tell me what’s necessary." My voice was sharp, shaking. "Did you know? Did you sit there and let him do this to me?"
She sighed.
And that was worse than if she had denied it. Because that sigh—soft, exhausted, indifferent—told me everything I needed to know.
"This is what’s best for you."
The words sent something splintering inside me.
"Best for me?" My laugh was sharp, borderline hysterical. "You’re selling me to a man I don’t know. You’re letting them take my company. My future. My entire goddamn life."
"Your father is securing your future, Isabella."
"Bullshit." My hands shook. "You mean he’s securing his own power. And you’re just standing there, watching it happen."
For the first time, something flickered in her expression. Guilt. Pain. Or maybe just tired resignation.
"You’re strong, Isabella. But you were never going to win this battle."
A lump rose in my throat, thick, suffocating. "You’re telling me I never had a chance."
"I’m telling you I know what happens to people who fight men like your father. I’m telling you that sometimes survival means surrender."
Her voice softened, like she thought this was wisdom. Like she thought she was helping me.
But all it did was crush me from the inside out.
I didn’t speak as she reached into her clutch and pulled out a thick ivory envelope.
"Tomorrow night," she said, placing it on my vanity. "Your engagement introduction. Dominic will be there."
My nails dug into my palms.
"Behave."
She turned and left.
The moment the door closed, I grabbed the envelope and ripped it in half.
♡
The Next Morning
The air was crisp, laced with expensive perfume and quiet power.
The entrance to The Grand Orchid Hotel was bathed in golden light, its towering glass windows reflecting the city skyline. Luxury cars pulled up to the private valet, chauffeurs stepping out to open doors for the untouchable elite.
And somewhere inside, Dominic Devereaux was waiting.
I adjusted the smooth silk of my gown as I walked through the grand entrance. The dress was a deep blood-red, elegant but defiant, cinched at the waist with a high slit that told the world I was not here to be tamed. My hair cascaded in soft waves, framing a face that hid war behind its beauty.
If they were going to parade me around like some corporate trophy, I’d at least look the part of a queen.
At the heart of it all, in a private lounge drenched in wealth and deception, sat the two families.
The Morettis and the Devereauxs.
Crystal glasses clinked, a silent toast to the deal that had sealed my fate.
My father, Leonardo Moretti, watched the room like a king surveying his empire, while my mother played the role of quiet, obedient grace. Across from them, Victor Devereaux sat with the same ruthless authority, his presence commanding.
And then there was Dominic’s mother—the only one whose gaze held something almost human. Almost.
And then my gaze landed on him.
Dominic Devereaux.
Seated at the private table like he owned the air itself.
His suit was perfectly tailored, jet black, crisp white dress shirt beneath. He wore power like a second skin, the watch on his wrist subtle yet worth more than most people made in a year. His jawline was sharp, unforgiving, shadowed with just enough scruff to make him look effortlessly lethal.
But it was his eyes that stopped me.
His eyes never left me.
Not once.
I lifted my champagne flute to my lips, barely tasting the expensive liquid. The weight of the evening pressed against my chest. The suffocating reminder that this wasn’t just an introduction.
This was a public display of ownership
Cold. Unreadable. Watching me like he already knew every move I would make.
He wasn’t intrigued. He wasn’t interested.
He was assessing. Calculating.
The First Confrontation
"Go talk," my father murmured, his voice a quiet command. "Figure things out."
It wasn’t a request.
Dominic pushed back his chair, rising to his full height. He was tall—too tall, his presence overwhelming without even trying.
I turned on my heel, barely waiting for him to follow as I led us toward the terrace.
I needed air.
I needed distance
The night air was sharp, laced with the distant hum of the city, but it did nothing to cool the fire simmering in my veins. The second we were alone, I spun to face him, my voice sharp, unyielding.
"If you’re so disgusted by this marriage, just end it," I snapped. "You have the power, don’t you? Make it disappear. Fix whatever sick deal your family made and leave me the hell out of it."
His expression didn’t flicker. Blank. Unmoved. A man completely unaffected.
"I can’t."
A scoff ripped from my throat. "Can’t? Or won’t?"
His gaze darkened, something like irritation flashing behind those cold, calculating eyes.
"You think I wanted this?" His voice was low, edged with something lethal. "You think I’d willingly chain myself to someone like you?" He let out a sharp breath, a humorless smirk curving his lips. "You’re a damn inconvenience, Miss Moretti."
"Then fix it!" My voice rose, anger clawing at my chest. "You’re a Devereaux. A single word from you could make this all go away, so don’t stand here and act like you’re the victim."
His smirk disappeared.
"You think I have a choice?" His voice was quieter now, but somehow sharper, cutting through the space between us. "You think I’m standing here because I want to?"
His words dripped with something ugly, something bitter, and I hated the way they crawled under my skin.
I glared at him. "Then don’t expect me to sit still while I’m auctioned off like a f*****g possession."
"You won’t." His voice was calm, dangerously final. "Because you’re not going anywhere."
Fury ignited in my chest.
"You arrogant bastard—"
I turned to storm past him, but in a blur of movement, his hand shot out, gripping my wrist. Before I could react, he pulled me back, my spine colliding with the cold metal railing.
My breath caught.
The city stretched behind me, a sea of golden lights, but all I could see was him.
His grip loosened, but he didn’t move away. He stood there, too close, too steady, like a predator who had his prey exactly where he wanted it.
"Let me go." I shoved at his chest, but he didn’t budge.
His gaze flickered with something dark, something unreadable.
"You don’t get it, do you?" His voice was quiet, edged with something cold, something final. "This isn’t about what you want, cara mia."
His fingers grazed my chin—light, dismissive, like I was nothing more than an afterthought—forcing me to meet his gaze.
"Fight me all you want," he murmured, his grip tightening just enough to steal my next breath. "Scratch, bite, curse my name—I don’t care." His voice was flat, devoid of amusement. "It won’t change a damn thing."
His tone was void of emotion, as if my resistance barely registered.
"But at the end of the day," he continued, voice dropping lower, sharper, "you’ll bow to my will, whether you like it or not."
His words landed like a slap, sharp and final.
The sheer audacity of his words sent fire through my veins. My jaw clenched. My nails curled into fists.
"Then I’ll make sure you burn in hell first," I spat, my voice shaking with rage.
"Be my guest," he said lazily, turning away as if I wasn’t even worth the fight. "Cara mia".
Rage burned in my chest, molten and consuming.
I hated him. Hated him.
But one thing was certain—this war was far from over. And if he thought I would surrender, he had no idea who he was dealing with.
END OF CHAPTER 2
- Writer
